Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (46 page)

"THAT'S CRAZY!"

"Look, you gotta real buster-upper here. Lug nuts, hub caps, and axle's all probably made a break for it, back windshield's smashed up, and your bumper just dry-humped the asphalt for about twenty feet." She crossed her arms. "Do you even
know
where your two back tires are?"

The Azure pouted and looked around the open square. At least one tire was laying in the market. The other, who the hell knew.

"You're looking at replacement parts plus labor," she continued. "And you said you had somewhere to be in an hour, so that's an extra 35% for expedited service. It's just what you would have paid at a local mechanic except you don't have to push your car the extra twenty miles on its knees. But it's your choice of course... we all need a little exercise." She looked across the square and down the connecting road,
far
down it, to emphasize her point.

"All right, jeez! Fine! You sure know how to paint a picture, kid."
 

"Like DaVinci, honey."
 

"I'll give you half up front. Half when I've seen you've done your job right." And just like that, the Azure slapped 400 blue bucks into her hand. "Thirty minutes, or I'm taking my cash back and pounding you into a grease stain." He glared at her and picked up his phone and dialed another number.

"Sure, buddy."

She handed the money to Manja, and the girl counted it before shoving it into her Butch Bear knapsack. As Zeika cranked the car up on the jack, Manja dove back into the toolbox. 400 Azure bucks, just like that. Manja was a genius. If they played their cards right, picked the right intersections and the right Azures, maybe they could get some steady business out of it. Maybe they'd even get enough to smuggle themselves to the Island and find their parents.
 

"Yeah, totally, bro!" The jock was laughing into the phone, leaning on the hood of his car. "Totally hit that last night. But my ride got tanked on my way back over. Sucks." He guffawed again. "Nah it's cool. I'm-- oh, come on, garçon! Gimme a break!"

Zeika rolled her eyes and continued to jack up the car. Sounded like a typical Azure douche-bag, but without the class. Or the smarts. God only knew why he felt he should carry thousands of dollars on him with Koa and those monsters on the loose. Then again, "intellect" wasn't quite the quality of import over in his Demesne, she'd heard. Guild Twenty mainly taught aspiring Azure Alchemists how to direct and focus their energy. Which made sense for this guy. He looked like he'd rhino-rammed more than his fair share of people, chicks included. But what was he doing all the way over here? The Twentieth Demesne was on the west coast. Had the war really reached that far, pushing western Azures towards the Protecteds?

There was no way to know for sure, and the answer wasn't going to help her get this truck running, so Zeika put her goggles on and crawled under the lifted car to assess the damage. Twisted metal, splattered oil, and the car's tortured underbelly scowled back at her. Crap. Maybe she had gone a little too far. She looked at Manja, eyes wide.

"S'okay," the girl whispered. "I know what to do." She ran off to get the tire.

"Hey, you'd better not be playing me, brats." The jock announced from the front of the car. "Twenty-eight minutes!" Then she heard him turn back to his conversation.

Zeika grabbed the Philips-head screwdriver as Manja rolled the tire over.

"Not that one," Manja hissed. "
That
one!" She snatched the screwdriver and handed her the cross wrench instead. "You can build guns, but you can't fix a tire? C'mon!" She crouched down next to her.

"Well aren't we smart-mouthed today?"

"Well don't be an idiot, and I'll only have to be smart in my brain!"

Zeika snorted and was about to shoot back, when the sound of screeching rubber cut her off. She lifted her goggles and peered around the truck to see three cars pulling up at the opposite end of John Street. Mounted lights inside the cars blinked rhythmically, filling the street with blue and white ghosts. She felt all her insides clench. It was the Azure police. In unmarked cars.

"Zeeky?" Manja lifted her own goggles and tried to poke her head out. "What's--"

Zeika pressed a hand over Manja's mouth, and as quietly as she could, she dragged them both back under the truck, as far towards the hood as possible.

"Holy shit, the five-o's here. Gotta call you back, bro."
 

"You!" The voice of an AP boomed through John Street. "Hands in the air!"

"Okay, okay, man! I'm grabbin' wind, see?"

Zeika and Manja laid as still as they could, their faces only a few feet from the jock's sneakers. Black protective boots stampeded towards the truck, surrounding the sneakers in seconds. A flurry of questions were being thrown at him. What are you doing here? Are you Azure or Civilian? What's your name? Where's your identification? The questions went on and on, the jock answering them all until a sudden hush fell over the group. The wasp cloud of black heels parted, revealing a pair of newly-polished, Italian-cut monk straps as they strolled over to the group. The gait was so smooth, so sure, so familiar.

"Name, citizenship, demesne."

"Archibald Digby. Azure. Demesne 20."

"And are you a guildsman, Mr. Digby? Are you in training to be an Alchemist?"

Zeika's throat tightened. She knew that voice. Smooth. Calm. Menacing. Sal Morgan.

"I am, sir. A Dilettante of Guild 20."

"Good. All right, Mr. Digby, Dilettante of Guild 20. Do you know what this is?"

"Uh, yeah," the jock replied, a nervous laugh in his throat. "And if you could not point it at me, that would be pretty awesome."

"Tell me what it is. What it says on the side of it."

"You serious, bro?"

Zeika stiffened at the slow and sudden sound of metal locking into place. It was the sound of a gun hammer being thumbed back. She knew it like a mother knew the coos of her own kid.
 

"What do you think?" Sal's voice was low, but the threat was clear.

"Anon!" The jock blurted. "It says 'Anon', okay? We done with the pop quiz? Get that thing off me!"

"Have you seen anyone running around here with that namesake? Anon?"

"No, man. Come on. I don't even know who or what that is!"

"Even Azures know about the 'Anon cannon', Mr. Digby. And address me as a Dilettante should, if you don't mind. I'm a Silvern."

"Well then ask some other Azures,
Silvern
," the jock snapped. "I don't know who or what you're talking about."

"Are you here with anyone else?"

Zeika closed her eyes. It was over.

"No." The jock said. "It's just me here."

Zeika's breath caught in her throat.

"Oh really?" Manja's toolbox disappeared as Sal's hand dipped down and picked it up. "This belongs to you?"

"Yeah!" The jock actually sounded offended this time. "A man can't like pink? What's your problem?"

Sal sighed. "Arrest him. Find out what he knows."

"Oh, come on! I didn't do anything! I'm one of you guys!"

The sneakers turned to face Zeika, and she heard a slam as the APs threw him down on the hood of his truck. Metallic clicks, as handcuffs locked around his wrists.

"We'll let the interrogator decide that, buddy. Let's go."
 

The APs lifted the jock off the car and pulled him back down John Street. The jock struggled, his kicks dragging all the way. The Italian monk straps sauntered alongside the struggling sneakers, their stride still smooth.
 

"This is bullshit!" The jock bellowed. "Get offa me! You can't do this!"

CRACK!
The sound of the nightstick smashing against his ribs was more than enough to make Zeika's stomach turn. Manja winced, and Zeika gripped her tighter. Seconds later, they heard the APs throwing the jock into the back of a distant police car and slamming the door. The car pulled off just as quickly as it had come, and then the group of fascist footwear made their ways back towards the car.

Think, Zeika.

Run into the alley and they'd be spotted. Run into the open square and they'd be spotted. No time. There was no time, and no way to escape.

"Search the vehicle," Sal's voice rolled off the alley walls. "Then impound it."

No!

The police boots dispersed. A couple of pairs detoured, aiming to walk around to the back of the car, and on Manja's side, a knee was coming down onto the ground. Zeika balled her fist, ready to use her powers and make a break for it-- when the sound of very distant scuffling resounded through the square. At once the knee, the boots, everything froze-- her and Manja too-- as everyone seemed to take a second to process the sounds. She couldn't be sure... but it sounded like someone was making a break for it.

"There!" One of the APs shouted. "Hey! Stop right there!"

She was right. Someone was running. The APs broke formation and dashed off further into the large square, pursuing the distant runner. The Italian monk straps walked behind. When all the shoes were gone, Zeika pivoted towards the back of the raised truck and dragged herself forward so that she could see out.

She looked past the back of Sal Morgan, past the cloud of cops. Someone was running, all right.
Two
someones, a woman and her son. Zeika swore she recognized them. The short, black bob atop a thin frame--

"It's Miss Lim!" Manja whispered, appearing next to her.

Corinne Lim, single mother, carrot-lover, and one of Zeika's most devoted customers. She was a huge fan of rifles, Flashbang holsters, and .380 ACPs, and she was damned good with them, too. One of the APs finally caught her, arm locking her and then grabbing her by her hair. Her scream echoed across the square as another AP snatched the boy by his shirt. Zeika trembled, a font of rage seething in her chest.
 

"We have to help her," Manja said, speaking her thoughts.

"I know. I want to." Zeika's eyes shifted to Morgan's back. "But we can't. We gotta go."

"But Zeeky--"

"We gotta go
now
."

The cops were still focused on the Lims, and Morgan was at least twenty feet away, still unaware of them. This was their only chance. With one pull, Zeika dragged her and Manja out from under the car, and keeping low and quiet, they crept around to the front of the truck and crouched down. Zeika looked under, trying her best to see if anyone had spotted them. It didn't sound like it, and from the little that she could see, it didn't look like it, either.

"Okay, when I say, you're going to run back to our hiding spot, ok? Stay low, like a spider."

Manja nodded, shaken but focused. "What about you?"

"I'll be right behind you." Zeika looked back towards Sal and his crew. "Go!"

Manja turned to take off on all fours, but the sudden skidding of tires tore through the air, followed by a wailing siren. A paddy wagon careened around the corner at the end of John Street, its blue lights flashing as it blocked their only way out. Zeika grabbed Manja by her hood and pulled her back into the only space left, the 40 degree-wide opening between the nose of the truck and the corner of the building it had crashed up against.

They were definitely trapped this time. And if the APs in the wagon hadn't already seen them, it would only take another ten seconds. They were screwed.

Zeika reached into her robes and wrapped her fingers around the Beretta, ready to hold them off while Manja got away-- when something dark and cavernous opened up behind them like an ogre's mouth, breathing warm air on her back. Before she could whip around, thick appendages lashed out of the darkness and clamped down around her head in a full Nelson, and impossibly, they caught Manja too. Before either of them could scream, the grip jerked, dragging them off the street and backwards into the dark.

Zeika and Manja were dragged back into a room and thrown. Manja fell to her hands and knees, but Zeika pivoted, drawing her Beretta.

"Wouldn't get too happy with that if I were you, darlin'."

Zeika's eyes widened as she took in the man who had grabbed them. He was a bit thinner than she remembered, and it was the first time she'd seen him armed with anything else but a bottle of booze. Yet the sagging jaw, the bloodshot eyes, and the stench marked him as all too familiar.

"Franz?"

A shotgun cleared its throat in response. Franz was glaring at her, hard. So was the Remington 870 he was holding, which glowered at her with its black cycloptic gaze.

"I ain't gonna ask you to drop your gun," he said. "But I am gonna ask you to bed it. Real soft and sweet like, if you don't mind."

Manja was clutching her pants' leg, not daring to breathe. Zeika tightened her grip and sighted down the barrel. His threat wasn't what concerned her; it was what could come after she made her move. She could easily disable the sear or the hammer of the shotgun, or even turn the ammo into cotton. But that also meant she'd have to reveal her powers, and after that, they'd still have to disable Franz to get out of here.

"Soft and sweet like, kid." Franz aimed the shotgun low, belly-level. "Let's not make this messy. I ain't much in the mood to scrape you n' the munchkin off the wall."